Like Scattered Rose Petals
by The Phantom Alchemist
Summary: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street is in for the shock of his life when a girl staggers into his shop half dead, looking all too familiar. The girl could be his dear Lucy's reincarnate. And what is her story? Murderer, unwilling prostitute, thristing for revenge, much like himself? Sweeney/OC
1. Fright and Flight

**I just started another **_**Sweeney Todd**_** fanfiction, but whatever. I'm equally partial to both my ideas and have good feelings about both. This is a Sweeney/OC fanfiction. Don't say I didn't warn you. If you enjoy my writing but prefer a Sweenett story, I have a lovely one in progress you might prefer. If you don't prefer either, I really don't know why you're here! **

**My stories are all very similar, you'll find, in a central aspect, and that it at one point they must involve a main character falling ill. I like to write sick fics. Okay? Say anything and I'll sic Sweeney on you!**

**Just kidding, of course, haha.**

**The premise of this story is that Mr. Todd, amidst the days of his revenge upon all of London, becomes mortified when a nineteen year-old girl stumbles into his barber shop, and aside from some minor differences, could practically be Lucy's incarnate. And she comes to him looking half-dead, as though she's got one foot in the grave already. And she has a tragic tale about her that fuels Sweeney's desire for revenge even further.**

**Generic, yeah, I know. Whatever. So, read, love, review?**

**Disclaimer: Of course I don't own **_**Sweeney Todd**_**. Whatever gave you that idea**?

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The girl staggered through the streets, weak, pitiable, but free.

She had escaped the hellhole that had been her prison for the last four years, though at a cost. That last one, the last she would ever service against her will, was dead. She hadn't meant to kill him. It was an accident. But he was dead nonetheless. And she didn't give a damn that he was. In fact, she was ecstatic.

Except for she couldn't be ecstatic. She was slowly deteriorating. Phantom flames licked at her arms, her legs, setting her on fire, though she knew they weren't really there. Those drugs in the incense they kept her and the other girls on at all times were making her hallucinate, now that she was finally away from them. She'd face a hellish next few days, as it worked its way out of her system, suffering from withdrawal, even. But it was a necessary price to pay.

The headache, though, that was real. It was like an explosion of pain, penetrating each part of her skull, originating at the unreachable center of her head. The aches in her limbs, in each joint, that was real, too.

She fantasized in her deliria that they were coming after her, eager to punish her. Those two dreadful people who were responsible for the nightmare of her life. She let out a cry and slipped into an alley. She couldn't travel the streets.

She staggered through the alleyways now, growing ever weaker, steadily more pitiful, but still free. She didn't know where she was going. She was sick, so sick. She hadn't known just how bad she was until her stomach wrenched violently and she toppled over, onto a pile of rotten old crates, and vomited everything in her stomach and then some more.

Maybe she'd finally gotten one of those dreadful diseases Madame was always talking about, the diseases that took her best girls from her just when the clients were starting to really enjoy their _company_.

She knew how people got better nowadays. What was it she'd heard again? She could barely remember. She's heard it during one of those precious stolen moments at a window, when Madame had been forced to replace her dress since one of the men had torn it off of her, ripped it to shreds in his impatience. They bled fevers out of the body nowadays.

The girl recoiled at the very thought of seeking out a doctor. Not after so many of those types had ravaged her while she screamed. She'd sooner die.

But there'd been something else she'd heard, hadn't there? If she didn't want to go to a surgeon… go to a barber. Yes, she remembered now. Seek out the white and red stripes characteristic of the trade. That's where she'd find help.

She slid a hand beneath the fabric resting on her chest to make sure the purse was still there. She'd taken it off the last man's dead body. He had been a well-to-do gentlemen. His purse jingled merrily with coins over her heart. Her only comfort. She'd be able to pay a barber, certainly.

She was lost when it came to London. She'd lived in the city her whole life, but she'd barely seen daylight in the last four years. Her mind was foggy from drugs, her memory was foggy from time, and she had no idea where she was going.

She collapsed against a street sign when she came to it, gasping. She could barely make out the words in the dim light – the only streetlamp lit was a good fifteen feet away. _Fleet Street_, it read. She sort of remembered that name. There was a… a pie shop there, yes. She'd been there for the last time five years ago, when she was still a starving ragamuffin on the streets. She remembered because the woman who ran it was the first woman who'd been nice to her, ever. Gave her a pie for free. It was admittedly the foulest thing the girl had ever tasted, but even a stupid street urchin knows you don't stick your nose up at a free meal, and she was far from stupid.

She didn't remember the woman's name, but if she was still running that pie shop, a nice woman like her would surely help a sick, pathetic little nit, just escaped from a whorehouse. But which way did she go, right or left? Where was that pie shop?

The girl released the street sign, making sure she could keep her balance on her weak legs. She'd go left. It didn't matter.

There were barely any street lamps lit, and she had to shuffle through the streets on the light cast from windows. She saw the occasional person lingering on the street, but no one paid her any mind.

_Lovett_.

The word caught her eye. The name was a kind one. She turned to the words, staring at them for the longest time until she was absolutely sure. _Mrs. Lovett's Meat Pie Emporium_. She'd sound it. Thank goodness it was still here.

The girl staggered forward too fast, slipping and falling flat on her face. When she extended her arms to break her fall, she landed far too hard on her left wrist. She grimaced as pain shot up her arm and into her shoulder. Not broken. Maybe sprained. And damn, it hurt.

She clambered to her feet, her stomach rolling, and started for the pie shop. A young, black-haired boy raced past her and into the pie shop, disappearing out of sight. Did the woman have a kid?

Twenty steps. Fifteen. Ten.

Something caught the girl's eye then. A pole hanging over the side of the shop, over a set of stairs that led to an upper room. It was vertical, striped with red and white.

A barber.

Any thoughts the girl had of getting to the pie shop fled her mind. All that mattered was holding out long enough to get up those stairs. She could feel herself fading fast already. She was going to pass out for sure.

Once she get her foot on that first stair, she felt a last surge of energy. Clutching the side railing, she managed to pull herself up the steps, and then there was only to pray the door was open. It was.

She got her fingers around the handle and let the door swing open as she pressed herself against the doorframe for support. At first she thought the room was empty and her spirit sunk, but then she heard the deep, dangerous male voice from the corner and realized there was a man standing before the vanity there, back to her. "Come for a shave?"

It too her a few moments and several deep breaths to find her voice. "No," she gasped out. The single word was all she could manage.

He turned around, surprised to hear a woman's voice. The girl gasped. He was tall and thin, pale with sunken eyes, dark purple circles beneath them. His hair was a tangled mess, a wonderful shade of raven-wing black, interrupted by a strip of white run through it over his right eye. He was haunting, and at the same time sort of beautiful. She didn't know why, but the girl was glad, somehow, that this was the man she'd managed to seek out.

He was equally as startled by her appearance. She was paler even than him, with dull brown eyes and thin features. Her hair was long and yellow, damp with sweat, and she had the look of a half-dead person about her. But what was truly shocking was that, save for subtle features, the girl was Lucy's incarnate. Her cheekbones were slightly higher, her nose a little longer, but other than that…

Sweeney approached her unconsciously at first, the remnants of human compassion that were Benjamin Barker inside of him crying out for the poor girl. He felt a strange twinge of concern in the pit of his stomach. It had to be merely because she looked so much like his dead wife. Of course it was.

Struck temporarily mute, the barber finally asked, "Then what can I do for you this evening?"

The girl stared into his dark eyes, almost black eyes, like the color of midnight. She was going to faint, and if she didn't get it out soon he'd never know what it was she wanted. "I… need you… to bl… to bleed me," she barely gasped before the world went black and she slumped, unconscious, into the arms of Sweeney Todd.

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**It's short… and I'm tired… and am considering going to re-listen to the Sweeney Todd soundtrack for the fifteen billionth time. It's so hard to concentrate. Quality writing, I hope? I'm actually proud of this little chapter, and I hope you like it as well. Enough, perhaps, to tell me what you thought? I won't post another chapter until I get one review at the very least. So if you want to see more of this, by all means! **_**I**_** know what's going to happen, but unless you, dear readers, appease my selfish whims, you shall never hear the rest of the tale of the girl who looks so much like Lucy and the Demon Barber of Fleet Street!**

**I love you all, thank you for reading!**

**Phantom, out!**


	2. Deliria

**It's surely been so much longer than a week, give a few days (sorry…). I'm finally sitting down to work on this chapter, after updating all the other fanfictions I needed to. This officially commands my attention now. **

**Anyway, a quick recap of chapter one: A girl (who remains nameless) has stumbled into Sweeney Todd's barbershop, sick and weak, who just so happens to look exactly like his beloved Lucy. The girl has collapsed in his arms after leaving him with one request - she wants him to bleed her. Why did she go to the barber? Doctors terrify her.**

**Let's watch things unfold, shall we? Now, enjoy chapter two!**

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Mr. Todd's mind had gone blank at the mere sight of the girl, and now, to have her unconscious in his arms after she'd fainted, he had no idea what to do. He had barely registered the only words she'd spoken to him, after her confirmation she had not come in, as he had inquired before seeing her, for a shave. Something about bleeding. She'd wanted him to bleed her, yes that was it.

He could do it, too, of course. Barbers knew how to bleed people, as well as a few crude dentistry techniques, but the last time he'd done such a thing he had barely been a proper barber for a year; in short, a very, very long time ago. While he was sure he could, though, looking at the girl made something explode in his chest, a supernova of emotions that he thought had long since escaped him, reminding him so abruptly and so painfully of his precious Lucy that the thought of cutting her open himself was too much to bear.

Why did she want to be bled? The only clue he had was that he could feel her skin burning through her pale blue, somewhat ragged dress. She was unearthly pale – paler than him, even – and had a slightly green tinge to her cheeks. She was quite obviously ill. Very ill.

So he did what any sensible person caught in his situation would do; he swept the girl up in his arms so he was carrying her like the princesses in the storybooks his wife had bought for their daughter so long ago, before he'd been falsely convicted, and proceeded as quickly as he could downstairs to enlist the help of Mrs. Lovett.

"Mrs. Lovett," he called gruffly, opening the door to her shop and crossing the threshold. As he made his way across the kitchen and towards her living area, he called again, more urgently, "Mrs. Lovett!"

"What is it, love – oh!" Mrs. Lovett came out of her bedroom and started at the sight of the girl in Todd's arms, her face blanching for a moment before she realized the girl was much too young to be the person she thought. Clutching a hand to her heart as the color returned to her cheeks, she marveled, "Good heavens, I thought for a moment that was—"

"Lucy," the barber said painfully, his voice cracking slightly with the fresh yet familiar grief of having lost his wife. "Yes. I know."

It took a moment for the situation to really clunk into place inside Mrs. Lovett's head, and then she asked, "What on earth do you have a girl here for, Mr. T?"

"She clambered into my shop," he explained, laying the girl down on one of Mrs. Lovett's couches and stepping away from her, trying not to think about the remarkable resemblance between her and his dead wife. "Asked me to bleed her, of all things. And then she just… collapsed."

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Lovett said, looking more closely at the girl. She could hardly get over how much the child looked like Lucy Barker. She wore a tattered pale blue dress, ripped at the bottom with the stitching on the hem unraveling, faint stains from varying sources adorning the fabric. Her yellow hair was long, all the way down to her lower back, and damp with sweat.

Mrs. Lovett bit her lip. Beads of sweat dotted the child's skin everywhere; her neck, her forehead, even her arms. The baker stepped forward and placed a hand on the girl's forehead. "Mr. T, she's burnin' up," she whispered, suddenly acutely aware that she and the barber were in the presence of someone very ill.

Mr. Todd simply nodded, a look of pain akin to the expression he'd worn when she'd told him of Lucy's fate etched across his face. Mrs. Lovett sighed. It couldn't be easy for him, seeing a girl who looked so much like his wife in such a state. It probably kicked up memories, and whether they were good or bad, they had to be excruciating.

"Give me a minute," Mrs. Lovett said, stepping away from the girl and disappearing into the room she'd allowed Toby to take.

The boy emerged with her some moments later, his eyes widening at the sight of the girl. "What's she doin' here?" he asked, pointing at her. "I passed her outside! Looked like she was trying to die or summat, she did. Either that or drunk. Wot's the matter with her?"

"She's sick, Toby, dear," Mrs. Lovett said softly. "Now, go fetch that bucket of water like I asked you to."

"Yes, Mum." Toby nodded and scurried off, disappearing into the kitchen.

Mrs., Lovett crossed the room and perched herself on the edge of the couch the girl was lying upon, brushing blonde hair out of her eyes and wondering if hers were brown like Lucy's had been. "What are we going to do, Mr. Todd?" she asked.

He sank into a chair and held his head. "We can't do anythin' right now. It's nearly midnight. We'll figure it out come mornin'."

"Poor dear," Mrs. Lovett sighed. "Wonder where she came from. Though it looks like she's had it far from easy." Staring at the girl, a thought dawned on her, and she gasped. "Mr. T! Maybe this is your Johanna!"

But Mr. Todd only shook his head. "My girl is in the care of… Judge Turpin." He spoke the name with obvious difficulty. "You really think he'd have her wearing somethin' like _that_?" He indicated the girl's tattered and stained dress.

"No, I suppose you're right," Mrs. Lovett said, her shoulders slumping. For a moment she thought the girl could be the key to Mr. Todd's happiness, but if she wasn't his daughter than she was just going to prove as a source of heartache for him.

Toby re-entered the room, a bucket sloshing with water hung over his arm and a towel in his hand. "I got the water, Mum."

"Very good, dear. Now bring it over here," Mrs. Lovett waved him forward, and he handed her the bucket. She dumped the towel into it, wrung it out, folded it, and laid it over the girl's forehead. "Well… I suppose this is all we can do for now," she sighed. "You head on to bed now, Toby, love."

He nodded. "G'night."

As the boy returned to his room, Mrs. Lovett turned to Mr. Todd and offered, "I'll stay up and watch her. You go on and get some sleep dear."

"No." He startled her with the very force with which he spoke the word. "I'll see to her."

Mrs. Lovett was reluctant to let him torture himself like that. And he already got so little sleep as it was. She'd rather he got himself some rest, recovered a bit from the shock of seeing this girl, who could very nearly be Lucy's twin (at the age she was). "Don't be silly, dear, I can—"

"Leave me."

Mrs. Lovett sighed and shut her eyes, letting out a long breath. "All right," she whispered, getting to her feet and throwing a final glance at the girl. Trying not to dwell on the torment in Mr. Todd's expression, she slipped into her bedroom and shut the door.

Mr. Todd drew his eyes up to stare at the girl, swallowing back a flood of emotions that seemed to be overwhelming him. He almost felt like Benjamin Barker again. He let out a deep, rickety sigh and ran a hand through his hair. Mrs. Lovett had suggested the girl may be Johanna. Unlikely, surely, but… just maybe…

He stood up slowly and leaned over the girl. After a moment he whispered, "Johanna?"

The girl didn't stir.

He steeled himself and whispered, a little louder, "Johanna?" Pursing his lips, he touched her wrist and said, a final time, "Johanna?"

She jolted out of her sleep, letting out a muffled cry of both shock and pain, and Mr. Todd drew back immediately as the girl scrambled into a sitting position, terror in her brown eyes. She registered where she was, in an unfamiliar room, and stared at Mr. Todd, trying to pull from her memory where she'd seen him before.

Her wrist hurt like hell. She started there, trying to remember what had happened to it. She was running a blank on everything, like her mind was shrouded in a thick fog. _Fleet Street._ The words flashed in her head, and she recalled falling to the pavement. That was when she'd hurt her wrist.

As she held onto that one occurrence, other memories began to come back to her. She'd accidentally killed a man. She'd escaped the brothel she'd been kept in against her will for four years. She was sick, really sick. She'd even vomited in an alley. And when she'd gotten to Fleet Street, she'd gone looking for a woman who ran a pie shop, hoping she could help her. But she'd gotten distracted.

That was it. The man was a barber. She'd wanted him to bleed her. She sort of remembered asking him to, though she wasn't completely sure she had. And after that, she remembered nothing.

So many questions. Had he bled her like she'd asked? Where was she? What was his name? So, when she opened her mouth to ask, she was shocked when the question that came from her mouth was, "Who's Johanna?"

Mr. Todd flinched. He hadn't expected to be so dejected by learning the girl wasn't his daughter after all, but it made his stomach plummet. He couldn't find his voice. How on earth should he answer the girl? What would he tell her? That he thought she was his long-lost daughter?

The girl waited for an answer that never came, so rather than press the matter she decided to voice another query. "Where am I?"

Mr. Todd swallowed down the lump in his throat. "Below my barbershop in the home of a baker named Mrs. Lovett," he responded gruffly.

The girl glanced around. "Where's she?"

"Bed. It's very late." Mr. Todd watched the girl as she looked towards the hallway with the doors leading to Mrs. Lovett's room, Toby's room, and a bathroom. If she wasn't Johanna, then who on earth was this girl? "What's your name?"

The girl cringed. A name? She didn't truly have one. She'd grown up without one, a nameless urchin on the streets, before she'd been more or less kidnapped by that god-awful French woman and her husband and forced into prostitution. At the brothel Madame and Monsieur had called her Désirée, a French name meaning "desired". It was supposed to be symbolic. She was the prettiest of their prostitutes, and therefore men wanted her. That didn't always mean they could afford her. Madame set the price for a night with her prized Désirée very high.

And she wanted nothing to do with that place for as long as she lived.

"I don't have a name," the girl whispered. The room began to spin and she breathed in sharply. She still felt awful.

"Are you all right?" Mr. Todd asked tersely.

The girl waited for the room to stop spinning, but it never did. "Did you bleed me?" she whispered, her vision going fuzzy.

Mr. Todd looked away. "No. I didn't."

She was going unconscious again; she could feel it, the darkness creeping up on her. In a few moments she'd be gone. "Do it now," she mumbled, her expression going slack as the black overtook her body, numbing her senses. "Please…"

She succumbed to it.

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**Fin! It took me too long to get this out, and now it's off to work for a few hours before I set to cycling through my writing again, one story after the next. Four to update… I work myself too hard. Plus, I'm looking for a second job…**

**Anyway, I love you all, I very much hope you liked this chapter, and please review! I know you're out there reading this!**

**Phantom, out!**


	3. Awakening

**Okay, everybody, it's back! It took far too long to sit down and write this chapter, but colleges and school and other fanfictions have been demanding much of my attention and I only manage to slip in writing here and there. Hopefully you enjoy this new chapter.**

* * *

Sweeney sat back in his chair and let out a ragged sigh, holding his head in his hands. His chest was aching dully and his heart was going through the process of attempting to decelerate (the hope that the girl was his long lost daughter had made his adrenaline surge). She was asleep again now, only having awakened long enough to dash the hopes he had of her being his daughter, be informed of where she was and who had been kind enough to take her in, and tell him she didn't have a name.

That last one infuriated Mr. Todd, for some strange reason. What kind of a person didn't have a name, for heaven's sake? Hadn't _somebody_ ever thought to give her a name?

Though it did offer him a very valuable hint as to where she'd come from. If she didn't have a name she had either never been given one or cast hers off, making her an orphan or a runaway. And if she was a runaway, the place she had come from had to have been some sort of Hell. If it weren't, she wouldn't have run from it in her condition.

Sweeney groaned softly and ran a hand through his thick, messy black hair, looking towards the girl. His heart throbbed. She looked so very like Lucy. It was too cruel.

To keep himself sane – or close enough – he focused on the differences. Lucy's nose had been shorter, her cheekbones a little lower, and her eyes slightly closer together.

Or so he thought. The truth – horrible as it was – was that he couldn't really remember the exact features of his wife's face. Fifteen years had passed since he'd seen her last, and he'd never see her again. There was merely a feeling he got when he looked at the girl's face, a _feeling_ that those features were different from Lucy's, because whenever he tried to look at her and picture his dead wife, it was those features that bothered him.

But she was still beautiful. Even if she was sick, pale, and drenched in sweat, even though she wasn't Lucy, he found her beautiful. Maybe he was still looking at her as Johanna. That had to be it.

Mr. Todd looked away from the girl, perplexed by the clashing emotions he was experiencing quite suddenly. He wasn't in a proper mental state to dwell upon the resemblance this girl posed to his deceased wife. For now, it would be best to stop thinking at all. Mr. Todd didn't sleep all that much, ever, but as long as this girl was here, sleep was the only escape.

So he shut his eyes and tried to forget.

Mrs. Lovett came out her room, the next morning to find the girl where she'd left her, wet cloth still on her forehead and sleeping on the couch, and – a rare sight indeed – Mr. Todd asleep in the armchair next to her, one hand cradling his head as though he'd fallen asleep with a headache and the other hand hanging limply from the armrest.

She'd never seen Mr. Todd asleep before. Smiling to herself, amused by the sight, she went into the kitchen and began looking around for food other than meat pies. She wasn't going to feed one of those to the poor child. Who knew what human meat could do to her fragile system?

After poking around in the storage cupboard, Mrs. Lovett determined she had the ingredients to make biscuits, and as she began throwing flour and other components to the recipe into a bowl, Toby came into the kitchen rubbing his eyes, followed by Mr. Todd, who was in the middle of a yawn. Toby groggily mumbled a greeting to her and Mr. Todd watched Mrs. Lovett somewhat skeptically. "What on earth are you doing?" he asked.

"Makin' breakfast, what does it look like?" Mrs. Lovett replied smoothly, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "I won't feed the dear girl meat pies." She threw a meaningful glance at Mr. Todd and jerked her head towards Toby – who still was unaware about the secret in her pies – and added, "Meat could upset her system."

Mr. Todd, understanding the implied _human_ before the word _meat_, shrugged and turned the Toby. "Now, boy, you run down to sixteenth street. Get the doctor there and bring 'im back here. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," the boy replied, though it came out sounding like a question. Clearly the boy understood _what_ he was supposed to do, but was iffy on the _why_.

"We got a sick girl on the couch in the next room, Toby, love," Mrs. Lovett explained to him. "It's best she gets well quick and then we can figure it out from there. Hurry now and do as Mr. T says, dear." Winking at him, she added, "A nice hot breakfast in it for you."

"Right, Mum," Toby said, suddenly eager from hearing of the prospect of food, and raced out the door.

"Bless that boy," Mrs. Lovett said fondly, glancing through the window at his receding figure. "Don't know what I'd do without 'im."

Mr. Todd let out a noise of disbelief and sat at the end of the table. He sighed and shook his head. "You're really going to keep her 'ere?"

"Course, Mr. T. I'm not going to turn a sick child out onto the streets, not with people like Judge Turpin on the prowl," Mrs. Lovett said, knowing Mr. Todd couldn't dream of throwing out the girl after she mentioned the judge he hated so much.

Mr. Todd twitched slightly at the mention of Turpin. Damn, she had him. "What will you do with her once she's better then, eh?" he challenged her. "You've already got the boy to help you round the shop."

"I rather think she's old enough to decide what's next for her," Mrs. Lovett pointed out. "She's young, but I imagine she's no mere child. She came to you to bleed her, didn't she? What kind of a girl does that?"

"She doesn't even 'ave a name," Mr. Todd sighed.

"Well, she just hasn't been awake to tell us," Mrs. Lovett reasoned, jamming a spoon into the dough she'd concocted.

"She was awake. Just for a few minutes last night."

"And you didn't think I'd want to hear about this?! What'd she say?" Mrs. Lovett asked, appalled to hear the girl had even regained consciousness.

"Well, she's not Johanna," Mr. Todd said. "I told her where she was, what 'ad happened. She told me she didn't 'ave a name, asked me to bleed her for the second time, and fainted again."

Mrs. Lovett let out a long breath. "Well… that's that, I suppose. Why don't you just bleed her yourself, then?"

Mr. Todd stared at her. He didn't want to admit he couldn't, in so many words. But when he looked at her he saw her as either Lucy or his daughter, and the thought of slicing her open made him feel somewhat sick.

Mrs. Lovett seemed to understand without the words, sighing as she pulled a baking sheet out and started plopping clumps of dough onto it. "Well, then, we'll get the doctor to take care of her. And once she's well, I suppose things'll all fall into place."

"Excuse me," a weak voice said from the entrance to the hall that led to Mrs. Lovett's living room. Both Mr. Todd and the baker rapidly looked towards the voice. The girl was standing there, clutching the wall for support, ghostly pale with a green tinge to her cheeks. "I really don't want to be a bother," she continued in a voice so soft Mr. Todd and Mrs. Lovett had to concentrate very hard on listening to her. "I can go."

Mr. Todd had the very odd, almost overwhelming desire to leap up and carry her back to the couch, insisting she remain there until she was well again. No doubt an impulse stemmed from her resemblance to Lucy.

"Nonsense, dear!" Mrs. Lovett exclaimed, popping the tray into the oven as quickly as she could before racing to the girl's side. "What on earth are you doing up, anyway? You should be resting! Come on now, back to the couch with you!" she let the girl lean on her as she guided her back to the living room, lowering her onto the couch carefully.

"I heard voices," the girl mumbled, holding her head as it throbbed. "You both seemed a little… put-out, having me here. I _really_ don't want to be any trouble," she added.

"It's no trouble dear, no trouble at all," Mrs. Lovett assured her, reaching into the bucket and replacing the cloth on the girl's forehead. "Now you just rest, bring your fever down."

The girl stared at her with a look Mrs. Lovett often associated with religious epiphany. "You're just as nice as I remember," the girl said. "I came into your shop once a few years ago."

Mrs. Lovett gasped. "I remember you," she said, amazed. The girl had changed quite a bit in only a few years. She hadn't had nearly the figure then that she had now. "I gave you a pie, didn't I?"

The girl nodded. "Are they still the worst pies in London?" she asked, smiling a little.

Mrs. Lovett even laughed. "As a matter of fact, dearie, my recipe is now one of the _best_ in London."

"I'm glad for you," the girl said seriously.

Mr. Todd slipped into the room, originally having been eavesdropping on the baker's conversation with the girl in the hall.

The girl glanced at him. "I think I may have remembered my name. And even if it isn't, I still think I'd like to be called by it."

"Well, that's wonderful, isn't it, Mr. T?" Mrs. Lovett asked the barber, throwing him a look that told him to _be nice_. "What is it, love?"

"In my dreams I thought I kept hearing someone calling to me, only they kept saying the name Rhine over and over. I kind of like the way it sounds."

"Rhine?" Mr. Todd repeated, somewhat surprised. He wouldn't have been more appalled if she'd said her name was Lucy. "Isn't that a river off Germany?"

Mrs. Lovett shushed him and turned back to the girl, smiling. "It's a lovely name, dear. Rhine. Don't suppose you pulled a surname out o' that noggin o' yours?"

The girl shook her head.

"Well, that's good enough for now," Mrs. Lovett said, nodding once. "All right, I've got to go finish up with breakfast. Mr. Todd'll keep you company for a bit, dear." She turned and went through the hall, casting a warning glance at Mr. Todd as she went.

Mr. Todd, as a matter of fact, did _not_ want to keep Rhine company for a bit. He wanted to go upstairs, open his shop, and await unsuspecting customers. But Mrs. Lovett may just murder him if he left the girl alone, so he sank back into the same chair he'd occupied all night, flipped open one of his razors, and watched it glint in the hazy morning light.

Rhine felt he did not want to speak to her, so she didn't talk. She watched the glint of sunlight reflecting off his blade dancing on the wall behind him, wondering when the last time she saw something similar was. Not since a long, long time ago. Madame kept shiny things away from her girls, and stolen moments of sunlight were few and far between.

Her stomach rolled and Rhine grimaced, gritting her teeth to hold back to little moan of pain formulating in her throat. It still did not go unnoticed. Mr. Todd, having seen her muscles tense and her jaw clench, tore his attention away from the blade and back to her. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," Rhine mumbled, letting out a long, shuddery breath. "I'm fine."

Mr. Todd didn't believe her, but ignoring her lie was more comfortable than delving into it, so he did. Rhine rolled over and curled her legs into her chest, wondering why the man with the black eyes and white stripe in his hair looked at her so coldly in order to distract herself from her throbbing head and her lurching stomach.

The thought came to her after a long while in stony silence, and Rhine rolled over, trying to ignore the way her gut felt like it was imploding, and examined her arms, looking for any tell-tale signs of having been cut open recently. Nothing. No lines, no scars, no bandages, nothing. Even after her pleas, the barber still had not bled her.

"You didn't do it," she said, staring at her arms with mingled fury and shock. "You never bled me."

Mr. Todd, unable to think of a better response, simply replied, "No."

"Why not?" Rhine demanded. Mr. Todd was somewhat shocked by the amount of force in her voice, especially in her state. He realized she was no frail, pathetic child. Struck mute, he simply shook his head. Rhine groaned and rolled over, looking away from him. She was going to be sick for days, burdening these people, since she hadn't been bled.

Mr. Todd was unable to keep himself from asking, "How old are you?"

Rhine had no record of her birth. She had no idea what her birthday was, and no way of knowing how old she was. "Nineteen, probably," she said. "Could be eighteen, could be twenty. There's no way to tell."

Mr. Todd was going to ask why, but there came a significant amount of commotion from the kitchen and Toby bolted into the room, followed by a man Mr. Todd had never seen before. The man was younger than he was, though not by too many years, with glossy black hair tied back into a ponytail in the gentlemanly style and green eyes framed by glasses.

Rhine's eyes found Toby and she stared at him. "You look familiar," she mumbled.

Toby, watching her curiously, replied, "I passed you on the street last night."

She nodded, faintly remembering, and her gaze went from Toby to the unfamiliar man. He answered her unspoken question. "Dr. William Evanson," he introduced himself, holding out his hand to Mr. Todd in greeting. "How do you do?"

Mr. Todd ignored the gesture and replied, "It's not me who's sick 'ere. I'm not sure I'm the proper person to be askin' that question."

Rhine's breath caught in her throat when she heard the man's title, and as he turned to her, humbled by Mr. Todd's candor, she bit her bottom lip, curled in on herself, and looked up at him with fear in her brown eyes. All she could see around her was the darkness of the bedroom that had become her torture chamber; all she could hear were the anticipating moans of the men who were her torturers.

"How are you feelin', Miss?" he asked her, kneeling before her and opening his black bag. He was ignorant of her terror.

Mr. Todd, however, was not. He was on his feet before even he registered what he was doing, at Rhine's side without being sure what had possessed him to go to her. "What's the matter, girl?" he asked.

"Why – why – why –?" Rhine gasped, unable to go on. She couldn't formulate any words beyond that. Her fear was causing her to shut down.

The last man had been a doctor. Why did she have to remember that now? He had been a doctor. He had brown hair. She never saw the color his eyes were; it was too dark, always, to see, and it had been early evening.

She had, in her desperation, hit him over the head with the lamp from the bedside table.

He had fallen.

He wasn't breathing anymore. There was blood coming from his head where she'd hit him. She had killed him.

"I had the boy retrieve him," Sweeney said, unsure of what was making her so terrified. "He can do a lot more for you than I can."

Something in Rhine's chest loosened and she found herself able to choke out, "But I don't want him here!" A warm, fat tear rolled down her cheek. "Please, _please_ just bleed me yourself! Please."

"Toby!" Mrs. Lovett called from the kitchen. The boy didn't move, too busy watching the scene unfolding before him, and Mrs. Lovett marched into the room. "Come on now, love," she said softly, gripping the boy's arm and leading him to the hall. "It's a little too crowded in 'ere, don't ya think? Let's go to the market for a bit, stock up on some of the spices we're runnin' low on."

Mr. Todd didn't want to hear that. She was far better equipped to deal with a sick, crying girl apparently terrified out of her wits before a doctor. "Mrs. Lovett—!"

"You'll be fine, dear," she said hurriedly, going quickly from the room.

Leaving Mr. Todd alone to deal with comforting the girl into her senses and allowing herself to be bled by the doctor.

He ran a hand through his hair and let out a sigh that sounded more like a hiss. "Damned woman."

* * *

**Fin! Long one, guys, and how do you think Sweeney'll respond?**

**Okay, people, I seriously, seriously want your reviews! I only got ONE last chapter! ONE! I love you all, and I hope you love me too, so I'll show you my love by updating my story and you can show me yours by reviewing! Review!**

**Thanks for reading!**

**Phantom, out!**


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